Parkhurst.â
âGettaway,â George demurred, but he made sure the gloves fitted tightly even so.
Anthony slithered across the floor, moving noiselessly forward until he reached the open archway that led into the hall. George was with him as the two boys stood up. It was darker here, much darker, and the only light came from a small window above the front door; the one Anthony had tried â the one that was locked. The underfoot sensation here was soft â carpet. There was a sound, too, the steady, deadly ticking of a grandfather clock. George had seen them on Flog It . Worth a few bob. Even so, he prayed that Bed wouldnât decide to nip off with that under their respective arms.
âWhatâs that?â George was pointing to what looked like a small bundle of clothes at the foot of the stairs.
âCrafty old tart,â Anthony chuckled in a hushed sort of way. âBurglar alarm.â
âYou what?â Georgeâs heart stopped beating for a second.
âItâs what old people do to protect themselves. Canât afford a real alarm, so they put piles of crap in corridors, hoping weâll fall over it. Only, they ainât dealing with a pair of mugs âere, yâknow. Go on, then.â
âWhat?â
âClimb over it.â
âWhat? You mean weâre going upstairs?â
âWell, thatâs where old ladies stash their stuff, ainât it?â Anthony could only wonder anew atGeorgeâs naïveté . âTheyâre shit scared of being burgled, so they take all their valuables to bed with them.â
âIâm not going into some old cowâs bedroom,â George announced horrified. âYou didnât say nothing about that.â
âYou wonât have to,â Anthony reassured him. âThat sort of job you leave to the professionals.â And he patted his own chest, in a modest sort of way.
âI dunno,â George dithered.
âOh, for fuckâs sake,â and Anthony took the lead. He grabbed the banister with his right hand, twisting himself over the heaped clothes and landing neatly on the fourth or fifth stair. What an athlete. George, it must be said, was less secure. He approached from a bad angle, too low to the ground, and missed his footing. His right foot missed the stair completely and his left got entangled in the bedclothes. As he thudded down to the hall floor, Anthony flattened himself against the wall, ready to leap down and do a runner. He hadnât expected the old duckâs improvised burglar trap to be so effective.
As for George, he was undergoing an entirely different experience and one that heâd remember for the rest of his life. Wrapped in the bundle of clothes was an old woman. She was cold. And for one brief, appalling moment, George had looked straight into her dead eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
âI thought you ought to hear this, Mr Maxwell.â When Nurse Sylvia Matthews used a colleagueâs surname, there was clearly trouble in the wind. Or there was a kid in the vicinity. This time, it was both.
Maxwell took in Nursieâs room. When he was a kid himself and Andrew Bonar Law was at Number Ten, this sort of place was called the San. Chaps would end up there after too many hours under a fierce July sun at the wicket or crocked up after a pummelling in the scrum. He ended up there once when somebody tried to throw a gym bench at him. Now, it was all morning-after pills and cosy, anti-suicide chats. Sylvia Matthews had her special Mr Maxwellâs-Been-Horrid-To-Me chair. Other than that, the place was scrupulously clean and Spartan and simple. In a plastic-covered chair in the far corner was one of the simplest of them all. George Lemon.
âGeorge isnât feeling too well this morning, Mr Maxwell,â Sylvia said.
âOh dear.â Maxwellâs sincerity had barely reached room temperature.
âGeorge,â Nursie sat down next to the boy.
âGettaway,â George demurred, but he made sure the gloves fitted tightly even so.
Anthony slithered across the floor, moving noiselessly forward until he reached the open archway that led into the hall. George was with him as the two boys stood up. It was darker here, much darker, and the only light came from a small window above the front door; the one Anthony had tried â the one that was locked. The underfoot sensation here was soft â carpet. There was a sound, too, the steady, deadly ticking of a grandfather clock. George had seen them on Flog It . Worth a few bob. Even so, he prayed that Bed wouldnât decide to nip off with that under their respective arms.
âWhatâs that?â George was pointing to what looked like a small bundle of clothes at the foot of the stairs.
âCrafty old tart,â Anthony chuckled in a hushed sort of way. âBurglar alarm.â
âYou what?â Georgeâs heart stopped beating for a second.
âItâs what old people do to protect themselves. Canât afford a real alarm, so they put piles of crap in corridors, hoping weâll fall over it. Only, they ainât dealing with a pair of mugs âere, yâknow. Go on, then.â
âWhat?â
âClimb over it.â
âWhat? You mean weâre going upstairs?â
âWell, thatâs where old ladies stash their stuff, ainât it?â Anthony could only wonder anew atGeorgeâs naïveté . âTheyâre shit scared of being burgled, so they take all their valuables to bed with them.â
âIâm not going into some old cowâs bedroom,â George announced horrified. âYou didnât say nothing about that.â
âYou wonât have to,â Anthony reassured him. âThat sort of job you leave to the professionals.â And he patted his own chest, in a modest sort of way.
âI dunno,â George dithered.
âOh, for fuckâs sake,â and Anthony took the lead. He grabbed the banister with his right hand, twisting himself over the heaped clothes and landing neatly on the fourth or fifth stair. What an athlete. George, it must be said, was less secure. He approached from a bad angle, too low to the ground, and missed his footing. His right foot missed the stair completely and his left got entangled in the bedclothes. As he thudded down to the hall floor, Anthony flattened himself against the wall, ready to leap down and do a runner. He hadnât expected the old duckâs improvised burglar trap to be so effective.
As for George, he was undergoing an entirely different experience and one that heâd remember for the rest of his life. Wrapped in the bundle of clothes was an old woman. She was cold. And for one brief, appalling moment, George had looked straight into her dead eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
âI thought you ought to hear this, Mr Maxwell.â When Nurse Sylvia Matthews used a colleagueâs surname, there was clearly trouble in the wind. Or there was a kid in the vicinity. This time, it was both.
Maxwell took in Nursieâs room. When he was a kid himself and Andrew Bonar Law was at Number Ten, this sort of place was called the San. Chaps would end up there after too many hours under a fierce July sun at the wicket or crocked up after a pummelling in the scrum. He ended up there once when somebody tried to throw a gym bench at him. Now, it was all morning-after pills and cosy, anti-suicide chats. Sylvia Matthews had her special Mr Maxwellâs-Been-Horrid-To-Me chair. Other than that, the place was scrupulously clean and Spartan and simple. In a plastic-covered chair in the far corner was one of the simplest of them all. George Lemon.
âGeorge isnât feeling too well this morning, Mr Maxwell,â Sylvia said.
âOh dear.â Maxwellâs sincerity had barely reached room temperature.
âGeorge,â Nursie sat down next to the boy.
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